flowers-for-the-grave

[flowers-for-the-grave]

Secret Valentine's

This is my entry for the event hosted by @writeblrcafe! It was fun doing something like this again :)

This is my gift for @kittrrrr.

Word Count: 1610

---

"Can you cut it out?" Aren snaps, breaking his concentration. The cobalt glow emanating from his calloused palms shrinks to a pinprick. A soft sigh escapes his lips as tension leaves his body. "I don't know if you can tell, but I'm trying to get this done, and if you distract me, it's gonna go wrong. I don't fancy having to deal with another zombie, thanks very much."

Gracie-Mae crouches down. "Why don't we just leave this guy here? It's not like we're getting paid." She unsheathes a jagged dagger with a gleaming topaz embedded into the hilt.

He glances at the limp body in front of him. By all means, Gracie-Mae was right. Nobody was paying them anything. They had no obligation to offer their services. He could just stand up now, say he did what he could. Maybe they could hit the pub on their way back. There was a drink somewhere with his name on it, probably accompanied by bad decisions and a faceless figure in bed with him. Then he'd find Gracie-Mae later on, figure out what he got up to, then move onto the next village.

And yet...

He couldn't just leave this guy here. He probably had a family or something. Not quite old enough for a wife and kids, but maybe a pet? Or he might still live with his parents and siblings. In which case, Aren definitely couldn't just leave this guy.

Cobalt light floods the entirety of his palms as he lays them flat on the man's chest. Aren breathes in, then out, then in again. With each breath, the man's body begins to glow with that same light. He keeps going. In his gut, he feels the familiar tug of a rope and he grabs onto it, following the rope to wherever it shall lead him.

On the other side was an ugly, black mass of gunk latched onto the guy's lung. It pulsates with each breath Aren takes, convoluted green light spilling out from the gaps and spreading towards him. It creaks and groans like an old squeaky door, but moves at an incredible speed. He stamps his foot down on it, wincing in disgust at the atrocious squelching noise it makes in response.

He approaches the black gunk and, with a swift flick of his wrist, causes it to dissipate in an explosion of blue. Aren is yanked back out and into reality. He heaves, leaping to his feet and peering over the man's face.

"Did you do it?" Gracie-Mae whispers. She, too, stares at the corpse in front of them. "He still looks kinda dead."

"Give it a minute."

And, surely enough, there's a quiet groan and two green eyes stare up at the two of them. They're hazy and unfocused, but then the man blinks a few times and his pupils thin. He sits up. The man studies the two of them silently, his expression remaining blank and unreadable. It's mildly surprising; a man dressed this well shouldn't be so good at hiding like this from criminals.

Maybe he's dipped his foot into the criminal world enough times for a few instincts to be ingrained into him.

"Who are you two?" The man's voice is hoarse, as most newly-resurrected people's voices are at first, but sweet. It washes over Aren, coating him in that sickly sweetness. The mild accent there caused inflections on the vowels.

"Aren," He says, holding out his hand. "And that's my sister, Gracie-Mae." The man slowly lifts his shaking hand and takes Aren's, pulling himself up with it. "What's your name?"

The man looks startled at such a question being asked. His eyes go wide, lips parting in thought, and if that isn't just the sweetest thing he'd ever seen. A moment passes, and then he responds, "I'm Carter."

"Pleasure to meet you, Carter." Aren says.

Gracie-Mae rolls her eyes. Her eyes flash with an electric yellow, the air around her crackling and sparking. Carter swallows nervously. She presses her thumb to his forehead and mutters under her breath. Carter winces, then stands up straighter.

"To give you the rundown, here's what happened to you: a guy - drunk, lazy, unimportant - got mad at you for something. I dunno if you owe him money or had an affair with his wife, but he was pissed. He saw you leaving the tavern-" She points at the building behind them- "and got an idea. He whacked you on the head with a broken beer bottle. It wasn't pretty. He hit you a few more times to get the job done." Gracie-Mae pauses. She meets Aren's eyes. "We saw you, and decided to give you a hand."

Carter fumbles for an apology, but Aren cuts him off. "It wasn't easy, mind you. You had this weird thing on one of your lungs I had to get rid of. Real creepy, that thing. But the point is, you're alive and well." He slings his arm around Carter's shoulder and starts to walk him down the street. He glances over his shoulder at Gracie-Mae, and winks. She sighs but lets him go. He knows she'll still be watching.

To his credit, Carter doesn't look uncomfortable or scared at being taken down the street by a complete stranger. In fact, he seems completely relaxed. He walks without a care in the world, like he hadn't been lying on the ground a mere minute or two ago.

"Why'd you bring me back?" Carter asks. "I'm sure there's tons of people that deserve to be brought back more than I do."

Aren shrugs. "You seemed interesting." He left it at that.

Carter gives him an inquisitive look. "But why?"

He waves his hand dismissively. "Look at it this way: you have another chance at life, thanks to yours truly. All I ask is that you don't tell anyone that me or Gracie-Mae were here. Alright?"

"Alright." Carter looks like he wants to ask, but doesn't.

He didn't want to tell Aren the real reason he brought him back, but it was a glaring issue. Every time his eyes drift in that direction, he brings them back to facing forwards. More and more similarities crop up by the second. He isn't happy to admit it, but Carter has his eyes, and his hair was styled the same way he loved. He wore the same sort of clothes as him, and even his voice was similar to his. If he looked at Carter for too long, Carter would cease to be there; in his place, he would stand, arms open and a warm smile on his face as he welcomes Aren home.

They arrive at the place Aren and Gracie-Mae have been holed up in for the past few days, and he ushers Carter inside.

"Your injuries are mostly healed, but not fully," He explains, guiding Carter to a chair and getting him seated. "You'll need time to let them heal before going out."

Carter nods, then shuts his eyes. Aren, rather foolishly, in his opinion, bends down to quickly check Carter's pulse. It is sputtering, stopping and starting at random, but it seems consistent enough. It'll even out after a few more hours.

He just needs to make sure Carter doesn't get injured in that time.

"Well, you're royally screwing us over," Gracie-Mae comments as she slides in through the window. "The guards know where we are now. No thanks to your little stunt."

Aren rolls his eyes. "Maybe if you'd been quieter when I was getting it done, they wouldn't have found out." He shuffles around the dinghy space they call a flat in search of their first aid kit. He pulls it out and returns to Carter's side. The wounds on his body aren't hurting him, but they still need to be cleaned and tended to. Aren cracks on with it as he always has done.

Gracie-Mae falls silent. She normally does, when she wants to vent but has no words to vent with. Aren quickly finishes off tying some of the bandages around Carter's abdomen, then stands up.

"I'll meet you outside later. We can work this out when I'm done."

She relents, and slinks off to a hidden corner, either to sulk or do... whatever it is she does when she's alone. Aren's never around to find out what her hobbies are. For all he knows, Gracie-Mae just stares at a wall for hours. He has no way to know, and if he's honest with himself, he doesn't want to. It's her time to do with what she wants. He doesn't need to know every little thing she gets up to.

Aren stares down at Carter. He examines his work, then his hands glide across Carter's torso, gently adjusting the man so he can see what he's looking for better. A canvas of smooth skin, marred by the occasional blotches or scars or marks. His fingers stutter to a halt when they encounter something so small he almost misses it.

It's a tattoo, barely the size of his thumbnail, and yet so intricate in detail. It's a tiny ram's head, the horns gushing with thorns and petals. The eyes of the ram are hollow, staring up at Aren as if to ask who he was.

A grin overtakes his face. This is unbelievable. Lady Luck is truly on his side. Aren contemplates calling for Gracie-Mae so she can see it for herself, then looks down at Carter's face. He can't bring himself to do it yet. Later down the line, perhaps.

For now, that information was a valuable asset. He'd find an appropriate time to reveal it later.

[flowers-for-the-grave]

I'm not gonna lie, I was terrified Pentious was gonna die permanently. Knowing that he's in heaven had me SO happy. This man deserves the world, and I can rest happy knowing that he got probably one of the best outcomes of the situation.

[flowers-for-the-grave]

I just started watching this show and I instantly loved it. Please please PLEASE sign this petition. Get the show back. The pirates need their real ending.

[flowers-for-the-grave]

Secret Santa

This was really fun to write, and was also my first time doing something like this, so for my first ever thing like this, I'm pretty happy with it. I hope my person likes this a lot :)

@writeblrcafe hosted the event

This is my gift for @kittrrrr - hope you enjoy!

A Recurring Face

Word count: 979

At first his name had been Kestrel. He’d liked it; for what reason, he couldn’t quite say, but when he first heard the word he knew he loved it. Later on, he found out that a Kestrel was a bird, but he didn’t mind it too much. They were lovely birds.

Over time that name had to change. It was only natural. As humans developed, so did their languages and the names they went by. His name would be seen as unusual or strange, and thus it had to change to something else. In his heart, though, he was always Kestrel. No matter what name he took, he was always just Kestrel.

Humans had nice literature, Kestrel decided.

They were amazing; artfully woven words into strings of sentences. Each word was carefully selected to have an intended effect. They could make him laugh or - on rare, memorable occasions - make him cry.

Some of his favourites belonged to the Greeks.

Kestrel walked through the town, his eyes wandering across the shops and men walking around him. The sun was high in the sky, its golden rays beating down on him pleasantly, if a little too hard at some points in the day. There were no clouds that would drift by. The fact made him frown a little, but he recovered soon afterwards when his attention was captured by a man arguing with a vendor.

The man was not dressed like the other men and women roving around. He wore a white button-up shirt underneath a leather waistcoat, accompanied by pinstripe grey slacks and shiny shoes. His hair was a ruddy red and his eyes bright green, like moss in a forest. The man was trying to bring down the price of an urn, to which the vendor was trying to maintain his composure whilst explaining to the man that “This urn is incredibly valuable, it cannot be sold for such a price.”

Smiling, he approached the two men slowly. His arrival caught the attention of the vendor.

“I can pay for it,” he said. Kestrel took out some drachma and handed them to the vendor, taking a glance at the strangely-dressed man beside him. “Is it enough?”

The vendor’s eyes bugged out of his head. “This is too much.”

“Consider it a bonus, for putting up with my friend’s antics.” Kestrel turned to the man with a smile, hoping he would play along. “Come, let’s go back home.”

He placed his hand against the man’s back, but not before taking the urn and handing it to him. Kestrel escorted the man away from the shops and people and down a more private road.

He stopped when they were far enough from other people that no one would overhear.

The man looked at him curiously, his gloved hands shaking a little as he held the urn. He rotated it, tilted it, looked at it from every angle imaginable, then began to smile brightly. “Thank you,” he said, “I do not think I would have made it out of that unscathed.”

Kestrel laughed. “I’m sure you would’ve managed it.”

“I’m Thomas,” the man - Thomas - held out his hand. “And who are you, good sir?”

“Kestrel.” he answered, shaking Thomas’s hand with vigour.

---

His love for Greek literature was threatened by the appearance of Shakespeare. He couldn’t help but adore the man’s craft; his way with writing and creating likeable and repulsive characters; his amazing skill for both comedy and tragedy; the way he had risen to fame and even earned the favour of the queen herself.

He had arranged tickets to see one of his favourite plays and took his seat. It was a more private area, since he found that sitting with other people was quite tedious, at times, and that  plays were far more enjoyable with less clamour.

A man walked in. “My apologies, sir, but there aren’t many more seats available. Would you mind sharing with another?”

Kestrel nodded. “I see nothing wrong with that. Tell the fellow that he is welcome here with me.”

Bowing his head in response, the man scurried away, then returned with—

Oh.

The man disappeared, and Kestrel was suddenly alone with Thomas. He hadn’t aged a day; no wrinkles, no crow’s feet around his eyes, nothing. He was just as youthful as the day Kestrel first met him.

Which couldn’t be possible, since it had been several centuries since their last encounter. Unless Thomas was also…?

“I recognise you,” Thomas said, breathlessly. “You— you’re that man. From Ancient Greece.”

“How are you still alive?” he blurted out.

Thomas’s brows furrowed in thought. His eyes took in Kestrel’s clothing, his hair - which he had to cut short, sadly - and his face, lingering a bit too long on certain features.

Kestrel felt his cheeks colour, and looked down at his lap. He nervously fidgeted with his hands. “Why don’t we enjoy the play?” he suggested. “Then we can talk afterwards. Perhaps go for a nightcap.”

Hesitant, Thomas sat down beside him. Their shoulders brushed against each other for a brief moment.

“I think I would enjoy that very much, indeed.”

He wanted to never see Thomas go. He wanted to learn everything he could about the man who had disappeared for centuries and then came back.

He wasn’t alone anymore.

It took a short while for that to sink in. He wasn’t alone anymore. Kestrel didn’t know what to do. He could sing, he could cry, he could dance for hours on end and never stop!

“Are you alright?” Thomas asked, a nervous smile on his face.

Kestrel beamed back at him with an expression akin to a child on Christmas day. “Yes. More than alright, in fact.”

Their attention was snatched by the commencing play as the actors rushed onto the stage.

He was not alone anymore. Maybe things would be different this time.

[flowers-for-the-grave]

Ballad of Secrets

The Canary fell, but was not the first

An age of deceit, a broken curse

Slain at the hand of his ally another time

The light of The Stars has dimmed, gone past its prime

The Moon has set, a new era come

As The Sun shall rise, all pain undone

And as Mars died in a final war

Putting an end to the blood and gore

The Slayer's sword fell from her hand

And she joined the chorus, the rest of her band

And as Pluto stood at the Secret Keeper

Ready to meet the grim reaper

He was not yet done

He never would be

But Pluto was among them now

Now, and for all eternity

[flowers-for-the-grave]

Calm Before The Storm

There were no more Yellows now. Which as a result meant no more mercy, or grace periods. No one would show kindness anymore, not when the entire world was against you. Allies would only be standing in your way. Hindrances to success.

Scott stood at the diving board, staring out upon the server. He could see everyone beginning to head back to their bases clearly. His fingers itched, the way they always did when he was Red, slowly finding his bow and holding it up. An arrow was nocked, aimed and ready for someone's head. He didn't know whose head. It didn't matter in the end. They were all just heads on bodies waiting to be chopped off.

Shaking himself out of it, he lowered his bow and put the arrow back in its quiver.

Gem was sat on the floor with her sword in her lap. A strand of hair fell over her eyes and she hastily brushed it away. She stared at her reflection in the sword, a frown tugging at her lips, tilting it this way and that presumably to find a noticeable change.

Everyone felt different as a Red.

No one knew how. There were no physical differences to before, no changes in demeanour or personality. A player didn't instantly grow cold and calculated with an intense thirst for blood. The bloodlust was always inside of them. It just never arose as a Green or a Yellow. It simmered in their stomachs on a low heat, only to have the temperature rocket up and the pot overflow, teeming with the urge to kill. The need to have blood on your fingers. To feel the weight of a weapon in your hands, or to hold the lever to set off a TNT trap.

Many tried to look for a difference. It was quite common for players unfamiliar with the game to do so. They always believed there to be something wrong with them physically, and resorted to searching for changes in what little time they had on their hands.

They never found anything, sadly, but no one did.

"Gem," Scott began, walking over to her. She lifted her eyes to his for a moment, then looked back down at her sword. "Gem." he repeated, firmer. She paid him no mind. Apparently a reflection was more important than her teammate.

Impulse stepped out of his house and sat next to Gem. He stretched his arms and placed his palms in the grass, running his hands through the blades. Like many other players, his hands were riddled with scars, burns, blisters and callouses. "What's up?"

"That's the problem," Scott replied. "Nothing. Nothing is happening."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Impulse asked. "I mean, that means we have time to prepare for an attack, or a trap." He nudged Gem with his arm playfully. "Right Gem?"

She didn't respond.

Scott leaned in a little closer and sighed. Her eyes had glazed over. Again.

"Third time today." he grumbled.

Standing up, Impulse bent down to scoop Gem up into his arms and made a start for the gate. He gestured with his head for Scott to follow, and follow he did. He opened the gate for Impulse, and the two of them descended down the stairs and walked past the Secret Keeper statue. The mere sight of it was enough to send shivers down Scott's spine and make him want to run.

They stopped by Cleo's first. Unsurprisingly, Etho was there too.

"What is it?" Cleo asked. She whispered something in Etho's ear and he nodded, scurrying off quickly.

Once his receding footsteps were out of earshot, Scott answered. "It's happening again. I'm gathering some of the players."

She nodded, gradually understanding. "Alright, just give me a moment to grab my things." she disappeared.

Scott stood there, impatiently tapping his foot until Etho arrived with Grian in tow. Both of them were holding bundles of blankets with some snacks thrown in there for good measure. Grian yawned, attempting to rub his eyes.

Cleo reemerged a short while later with more snacks and some water.

The group left and headed towards Pearl's, where Scott broke off from the group to retrieve an additional guest. Before he could even knock on the door, Martyn was outside with all his stuff, a small smile on his face.

"Cleo messaged me," he explained. Scott walked alongside him back to Pearl's, where everyone was sat waiting. Some of them weren't able to join them, so it wasn't quite as full a group as usual, but it was still something.

He took some of the blankets from Martyn and laid them out on the floor. Everyone else did the same, then sat down.

Gem was the last one to sit. Impulse had to guide her to an available spot and gently lower her until she was perched on the edge. Her eyes were still glazed, but a fraction of light and normalcy was returning to them already.

Scott sat down beside Impulse, with Martyn's head in his lap. He absent-mindedly twirled strands of Martyn's hair whilst humming a small tune. He couldn't recall where he'd heard it; perhaps in passing, in the space between the games, or maybe it had been playing when he was in a different server. It sounded similar to a drinking song, so maybe it had been from Pirates.

"Now what?" Grian asked. He perched himself far from the others, but close enough to Cleo and Etho to reach them in case of an unfortunate event. His gaze was on Gem, his eyes narrowing mildly.

Etho chimed in. "We hang out. Eat. Talk. And we wait for Gem to come back."

Cleo nodded in agreement, a small smile curling at her lips. Her hand met Etho's, and their fingers entwined.

---

It took a while for Gem to come back fully. She'd return in brief fits, then leave soon after. It was like flicking a switch on and off repeatedly, only more stressful and each wait seemed to stretch on for eternity.

But once she started to ground herself, it became easier.

Her thoughts were a swirling mass of death, flashes of red every time she shut her eyes. Something was wrong with her. Something had changed, but what? What had changed so drastically about her?

She looked the same. Felt the same. Even tasted the same, which she tested herself (although maybe she did taste different and simply didn't notice.)

But something about her must have been wrong.

She was wrong. A freak. A creature of her own design or maybe someone else's.

Whenever she came to, she was surrounded by people. Impulse's hand on her knee, fingers tapping along to a rhythm. Scott humming a tune, playing with Martyn's hair, his hums occasionally turning into snippets of song lyrics. Cleo and Etho holding hands and smiling, Etho's head on cleo's shoulder, eyes shut in contentment. Grian watching warily. Pearl next to him with a calming hand on his shoulder.

A pang struck her heart when she came to.

They were all here for her. They'd dropped whatever they were doing, for her.

She was important to them.

Gem fell back again into that whirlpool of thoughts. They swirled viciously in her mind, growling and barking and biting like a pack of rabid wolves. Their fur was the colour of blood, and Their eyes were pools of purple. A strange black liquid oozed from Their fangs and dripped onto the ground. They approached from all sides, closing in slowly, leaving Gem less and less time to escape.

Panic bubbled in her chest and she balled the clumps of her shirt in her hands, trying to remember how to breathe.

"You're okay," Impulse's voice whispered in her mind. Was she? She didn't feel like it. "I've got you."

She almost laughed at the thought. He didn't. Not only because she was here and he was out there but also because no one could ever truly have Gem secure in their company. There was always that thin line, that tightrope of danger she was obliged to walk on. One misstep and she fell back into that world of blood, wolves and that rising sense of fear.

"Gem, we're here for you. Take your time." Cleo.

"You've got this," was a half-hearted encouragement from Martyn. He yelped, grumbled under his breath, then hastily added, "I believe in you!"

A hand gently squeezed her kneecap. She saw it, saw the hand, but not the hand at the same time. It flickered in and out of physicality, not wanting to be there for too long. Then it settled into reality with a firm determination.

Something else appeared, too. A shaky apparition, a figure bathed in sunlight. His wings were folded against his back, his red sweater worn and fraying. There was a scar on his temple, and a bruise on his cheek. A second appeared closer to her, gently illuminated by small floating stars, his pointed ears sharp and alert. Then came another, in a cloak of woven moonlight, a toothy smile revealing her elongated canines.

Then finally came one surrounded by a thick outline of red. There was a pendant around his neck of a hand grasping an hourglass.

They all smiled kindly at her, their faces coming into visibility slowly. Everything unnatural about them faded away until they were simply Grian, Scott, Pearl and Martyn, all still in their respective positions.

"Welcome back," Etho greeted.

Scott exhaled in relief, his hand falling to his side. Martyn frowned at its absence, sitting up properly. His hand crept into Scott's lap and rested on his thigh. A grin curled at Scott's lips.

Gem leaned into Impulse. "I'm tired." she whispered, not trusting her voice enough to raise it much more. Still, her words carried across to the others and a blanket was tossed her way. She caught it easily - surprisingly enough, but that must've been a good thing if her reflexes were already coming back - and wrapped it around her shoulders.

"G'night," Martyn said, letting gravity push him backwards. Scott fell with him, letting out a displeased noise when his back hit the ground. "Let's all have a five minute grace period before killing each other, yeah?"

They all mumbled their assent.

Gem and Impulse lay down, close but not touching. She couldn't touch him just yet; her body still didn't quite feel as it should. But when it did, she'd hug him.

Until then, she'd have to rest.

A Red Life was many things; vicious, unforgiving, spiteful, vengeful.

But they were also kind, gentle and merciful when the time called for it.

[flowers-for-the-grave]

The Florist and The Curse

"Do you really want me to hit you again?" Jimmy asked, standing on the terracotta mound, as the grass bled into the mesa. His arm was on his hip, chin jutting out proudly, with his other hand resting at his his side holding the hilt of his sword.

"I mean, you only did, like, a heart and a half of damage," Scott said with a shrug. He wasn't scared of Jimmy, no matter what the Red Life tried. He knew Jimmy for what he had been and who he is now; a kind, loyal and energetic man with room in his heart for everyone yet no one at all. "After all that-"

"Do you really want me to hit you again?" Jimmy repeated, more sternly this time. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

"-effort." Scott finished.

"You really want me to try again?" His voice grew deeper, slightly confused but remained firm and threatening.

"I mean, is your task to just hurt me? I'm so confused." Scott blurted out. "Also by shouting a weird catchphrase of 'the florist is gonna get me."'

"Yeah?" Grinning, Jimmy edged a little closer. There was a hazardous tone to his voice that set Scott's nerves on edge. He couldn't help it.

"You have thirty seconds."

The memory of the previous game left a bitter taste in his mouth. Obviously Martyn deserved the win. That was never in doubt. But being stabbed in the chest, then burned alive by his closest ally was not on Scott's bucket-list.

Nor was having Jimmy betray him like that. But, ah well.

He moved on.

Scott hadn't, cursed with too many memories and burdened with pain, blood and remembrance.

"Okay." Scott said. He gently tapped his heels against the horse's sides, urging it a little back. "I- is that your name, The Florist?"

"N- no? Dunno what you're talking about." Jimmy tilted his head like a puppy, his hair falling over his eyes. The usual honey brown was rimmed with bloody red.

"Oh, 'kay, okay." His horse moved further back, at his own insistence.

"Watch your back, Scott, alright? Watch your back." Jimmy warned.

Scott didn't stick around much longer after that.

---

He watched Lizzie fail to kill him. He knew it from the moment she tried to have him step up to the ledge; it was obvious from how her voice was pitched, the tone, the way her hands seemed to twitch urgently at her sides.

Scott hadn't thought she would fall. Maybe trip a little, get hit by an Enderman.

But not fall.

He heard the crackling of the lightning bolt and looked away as it struck at the empty Void, the space where Lizzie had fallen. In her memory and honour, Scott listened to the rolling boom of the thunder that followed.

Jimmy's curse was gone.

The Canary Curse was broken.

He felt something bubble in his throat, a hoarse laugh of joy and pain mixed together in a horridly lovely cocktail. He thought of how Jimmy would react to it. He thought of the shocked widening of his eyes and how his mouth would fall a little. He imagined the shocked huff of breath, pursued by hysteric giggles as he ran forth and proudly declared the curse gone.

Scott was happy for him, truly.

...He still had questions about the whole 'florist' thing, but at least Jimmy had lost his curse.

It was an odd feeling, when it happened. Scott looked fondly upon the last game because of the tether that had snapped when he'd died; the knowledge that the curse was broken, that he'd no longer have to live until all his allies and friends were gone, that the weight had finally been lifted, had relieved him.

He had laughed and smiled and actually felt happy for the first time in years.

Two curses down. Now to break the rest of them.

[flowers-for-the-grave]

Fields of Green, Rivers of Red

Scott nervously tossed and turned in his bed. The duvet felt itchy, too stifling on such a hot night, and too heavy as well. He kicked his legs, curled them up against his chest, then did some strange poses with them. One arm was tucked under his pillow, the other draped across the other side of the bed.

It was one of those nights when he wanted to shed his skin and fly free again. He wanted to tear himself apart, if only so he could feel the blissful emptiness again.

Anything was better than this.

He shivered despite the warmth, and tore back his duvet to go for a midnight stroll.

Silent, he snuck out of his house, past Gem's, and over to the diving board. He considered it, briefly; it was by far the fastest way to get down, but it was one of the louder ways. Could he risk it?

He glanced over his shoulder. There were no lights in Gem or Impulse's houses, which implied they were asleep, but sometimes that wasn't true. There had been instances where he'd been caught by one of them when he thought they would be asleep. This time, though, maybe he'd get away with it.

Scott shuffled towards the edge of the diving board. He felt as if he'd climbed to the top of a mansion and was about to make a risky jump, but it was either take the risk or die.

With infinitely less stakes than that, Scott stepped into the air.

He felt the air whip at his body as he plummeted down. An image in of himself, with gold-tipped snowy owl wings, falling in almost the exact same way, popped into his head. That happened more and more now, as the games progressed.

He collided with the water. He kicked his way to the top and broke the surface, panting heavily. He was soaked to the bone, and as he clawed his way onto dry land, he immediately regretted his decision. The water clinging to his skin, dampening his clothes and dripping from his hair irritated him.

Ah well. It was too late to turn back now.

Scott began to walk to Spawn, nervously eyeing the statue they went to hand in their Secret Tasks. He felt his very essence begin to pulse like a heartbeat, but multiple laid over each other.

The statue seemed to stare into his soul with its eternal judgement.

He sat down next to the button to reroll for a harder task. Scott pulled out his comm and typed out a message. Very few people would still be awake, but if he was lucky, then maybe he could not be alone tonight.

A reply was sent back. He exhaled in relief, eyes scanning the message, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Scott sat back, all tension leaving his body. He stared up at the moon and watched it make its nightly rounds in the sky. If he squinted, he could make out the vague shape of a howling wolf in the shadows cast across the moon, and a he shut his eyes with a small breath.

He opened his eyes to the sound of footsteps, and spotted four figures approaching; two blonds, one ginger, one brunette. Behind them was a white-haired man walking leisurely beside a man with dark brown hair with a coloured streak in it.

"Hey," he said, lamely. Cleo settled in beside him, slinging her arm over his shoulder. He leaned into her. Cleo was a constant that he could count on, across all the games; she was the ally he was guaranteed to have no matter what.

Martyn sat on his other side, Pearl next to him in turn. Grian perched himself in the centre of the structure, and Etho and Joel eventually arrived. They sat down on the floor against the button that signalled failure.

"Couldn't sleep?" Martyn asked. His cheeks coloured a little after he spoke. "Sorry. Stupid question."

Scott's hand reached out to the blond's and took it, squeezing it gently. Martyn looked down at the gesture with a soft smile.

They could all feel the malice radiating from Martyn; it was hypnotic, a blind lust for blood that caused a tingling sensation to spread through their bodies. It was a very familiar feeling, and it was one they did not fight against. Instead, they welcomed it.

After all, they were already awake.

What did it hurt?

"Crazy day today, huh?" Joel remarked. "I mean, my wife died, for one thing. Mumbo died."

"That's just life now, I guess." Pearl replied.

Scott nodded in assent.

Grian smiled. "Well, maybe in another game we can change it up."

Over the course of the night, the group moved in closer together until they were all huddled up shoulder-to-shoulder, laying across each other.

The night went on. The moon made its rounds with indifference to the collection of mortals beneath it.

Eventually even the Winners could not stay awake. They had all seen life, death and betrayal, and had learned to sleep with one eye open. But here, there was no need. Here they were among friends.

They let the night take their waking worries away.

[flowers-for-the-grave]

Curse of Victory

Scott sat in his house, perched on his bed, with a book in his lap and a pencil in his hands. He turned to a blank page, then gazed pensively out his window and at the view.

He tapped his pencil against the corner of his lip.

In the past, he'd written about his allies and the chaos of the server. He'd documented the advancements made to the base. He recorded silly, useless details that had potential to become useful in the future.

Mostly though, he tried articulating his memories.

Other players - specifically the ones who hadn't been cursed blessed with victory - had poor recollection of past games. The memories were still there, they would still reappear from time to time, but mostly they lurked in the dark recesses of their minds until called upon. Those memories were old. They had no purpose to them other than to have them keep playing; the reward for victory, after all, was to remember.

Grian remembered everything. Scott knew that he remembered throwing himself off a cliff, cheating on Scar, his slow yet steady loss of his fellow Bad Boys until he had been left alone.

Pearl remembered everything, too. She knew about the trio he, her and Cleo had been in the past; how she had been abandoned by her soulmate yet still came out on top, and Scott took his life so she wouldn't have to suffer in that world longer; how she had at first been in a duo in the Nosy Neighbours, which soon became a trio.

Martyn remembered. He had been the Red King's Hand, his loyal soldier and servant who'd had the burden honour of taking his king's life. He, too, was left by his soulmate and had spent weeks trying to undo his wrongs and get back in her good books. He had been Scott's only ally in the last life game, loyal and devoted, and had taken the mantle of victor.

Scott knew what they remembered, because they had told him. In the cold, empty Void, awaiting the next game as they sat alone with no company but each other, they didn't have much else to do except share what they remembered.

He remembered flower fields with Jimmy, a poppy tucked behind his ear and a wedding ring of twine around his finger. He remembered his allyship with Pearl and Cleo, which split into a duo in the life game afterwards. He remembered the fish tail that had swished behind him and still half-expected it to be there at night.

Most of all, they all remembered the pain.

Scott had tried articulating his thoughts, writing them on paper to go over later. It didn't work, predictably. But the sentiment had been there.

Martyn and Jimmy were Red Lives now.

It was an odd thought. Jimmy had never had the best luck in the games, always being the first one to be eliminated from the game. He had been a terrible ally - always so accident-prone and clumsy - but he'd also been joyful and kind. He had been as vibrant as the colour of his canary wings, and burned as bright as the sun.

It seemed sensible that Jimmy would go down so quickly.

Martyn, on the other hand...

Martyn was vicious. He was ruthless and cunning and quick. In the heat of battle, his sword always struck true. He was a fighter, from birth to death. He did not die easily.

But, like all of them, he was mortal. And he was human. He was subject to such things as mortality.

Scott scribbled this down as best he could. His handwriting, normally pristine and fancy, was erratic and scruffy. The others would probably think someone else wrote this, but the winners would know.

They always did.

He set down his pencil and lay down, staring up at the ceiling.

His bed felt cold.

He sat up again and rose to his feet. He shuffled to his door, opened it, stepped outside into the cool night air and began to walk. Where, he couldn't say. His feet were carrying him in whichever direction they saw fit.

Scott left behind the plateau on the mountain and approached the open field at Spawn.

He spotted Martyn standing there awkwardly, yawning and dragging his feet along the ground.

"Martyn? What are you doing up this late?" he asked.

"I could ask you the same thing," Martyn replied. His eyes glimmered red, sparkling rubies or flowing blood. Either way, they were beautiful. "Besides, a little Green Life out here, with no protection, and with a Red Life no less."

"You wouldn't try anything."

"Wouldn't I?"

"No." He spoke with conviction. He slowly drew nearer to the Red Life and paused a few centimetres from him. Scott cupped Martyn's cheek, and the Red Life leaned into the touch ever so slightly. There was hesitation in his eyes.

Martyn sighed, taking a step back. "I want this to end."

"You want to go back to the Void that much?"

"No? Yes? I don't know! It's... it's frustrating." He folded his arms and stared at the floor. "I just want things to be clear again. I want to talk to you without feeling the urge to rip your arms off. Hell, I want to talk to people in general!"

Scott grabbed Martyn gently by the arm. Without a word, they both travelled up to Pearl's base. He knocked on the door and was met with the image of Pearl - bushy hair, bags under her eyes - grumbling to herself.

"What?"

Scott, with Martyn in tow, pushed past and into the room. "Wait here," he commanded. "I'll be back soon."

He quickly ran up to the plateau, silently sneaking into his house and taking the bed. He legged it all the way back, using the diving board for assistance. He placed it down up against a free spot on the wall.

Pulling the covers back, he hopped in and patted the space next to him. Martyn nervously crawled in.

Pearl watched them awkwardly. Then she sent out a message via her comm.

"We're having a winners' sleepover." she stated.

Scott nodded.

Grian appeared a few minutes later, with two other beds. He placed them near to Scott's and the other two victors got under the covers.

"To victory, and shitty memories." Scott said, and the others repeated it.

Scott and Martyn tangled in each other's limbs with a small smile on their faces. It felt good, to be like this again. He'd missed it.

As slumber overcame him, Scott had one final thought.

He was home.

[flowers-for-the-grave]

Gem & The Scotts' First Concert

"You think this'll work?" Impulse asked, nervously peeking around the curtain.

Gem smiled. "I'm sure it's gonna be great."

Scott tapped his fingers repetitively against his arm. He glanced at the guitar laid out for him - cyan, with the green, yellow and red heart symbols running down the frets. This was a gamble; how'd they even know this would work out alright?

"This better not be someone's task," he muttered. Picking up his guitar by the strap and pulling it on, he strummed a few test chords for the umpteenth time that evening.

Impulse's hand twitched at his side, the other releasing its grip on the curtain. He took a deep breath and took a seat at the drum kit, picking up the drumsticks and tapping them against each other as quietly as possible.

Gem stood in that positive, easy-going way of hers, her hand gently gripping the microphone. Her hair cascaded down her back in tumbling ginger waves.

Their make-up had been a minor concern. Back-stage wasn't exactly the coldest, being uncomfortably hot at its best. For the past half-hour or so the trio had been vigorously panicking over whether it would stay or not.

They could only hope.

"And now, introducing..." there was a pause in the voice - Grian's, if he was correct - and the trio nodded at each other. "Gem and the Scotts!"

The curtain was yanked back.

The crowd of fellow Life members applauded and cheered. Gem plastered on that blindingly uplifting smile of hers that Scott could only wish he had.

Impulse tapped the drumsticks together over his head, counting up to four with a loud enthusiasm.

Scott strummed the first few chords. They were the ones he'd worried about most, as messing those ones up threw the whole song off its rhythm.

Gem began to sing. He went over the chords in his head, relying on a dangerous mix of muscle memory and mental effort. Her voice was powerful, stronger than the quaking earth and the rolling waves. She carried herself with an air of confidence, as if she belonged on that stage.

She began stamping her foot; their audience copied the motion. Scott joined in as well.

He leaned forwards into the mic in front of him and harmonised with her like they'd practised. Impulse joined in a few lines after. They sang the chorus in unison, their voices mixing together in the best possible way.

The crowd, by that point, had begun to sing along, having learnt the chorus and deeming their knowledge good enough to join in.

Hearing so many people gleefully singing along almost made him stop playing in shock. He hesitated, not long enough to disrupt the song, but enough for his forehead to start sweating in panic.

Slowly, Gem drew the song to a close.

He dared to look at Impulse, and found him smiling like a fool. Scott must have been as well, if he were being honest.

---

The rest of the evening continued mostly in the same way, only that they became more relaxed as time went on.

By the end, though, they were exhausted.

"I need to nap for three years," Scott said.

"Same." Impulse ran his hand through his hair. "I'm sweating like hell. Why's it so goddamn hot out there?"

Gem chuckled. "It's the lights."

"Damn lights." Impulse said, half-laughing at the end of his sentence.

"Wanna head home? It's pretty late." Scott checked the clock on the wall. Eleven-fifteen.

As soon as he said that, Impulse yawned, stretching his arms behind his head and arching his back. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea. Besides, we can play again in the morning, just us. No one else is gonna be here."

"Is that just an excuse to go home earlier?" Gem asked, a playful grin on her face.

"Would you blame if it was?"

She shook her head. "Nah, I see where you're coming from." Slinging her bag over her shoulder, Gem beckoned for them to do the same.

Scott put his guitar in its case, closed it then pulled the strap over his shoulder and held onto it with a white-knuckle grip.

Impulse just stood up, grabbing a water bottle and chugging it like he'd been wandering through a desert for days.

"Last one home does the dishes!" Impulse yelled, already bolting for the door.

"Hey!" Gem and Scott yelled simultaneously. Then, with a shared look between them, ran forwards. They shoved each other as they got to the door, squeezed through and sprinted after Impulse.

[flowers-for-the-grave]

Burning Flowers

Scott was fed up. He glared at Jimmy, currently squatting on an open trapdoor with his arms stubbornly folded across his chest and a determined look in his eyes. It was a familiar look for Scott, one he'd have seen in the first set of death games when him and Jimmy had been friends - even closer than that - rather than enemies or allies.

But that was in a different time, when Scott was content living with Jimmy.

Now he wanted him out. And quickly.

He tightly gripped his flint and steel, maintaining eye contact with Jimmy's warm brown eyes.

"You've got ten seconds to get out before I set you on fire." His voice was calm, like the sea before the storm. His eyes burned with controlled anger, a wildfire that he would only push inside until he lost all inhibition as a Red.

Jimmy adamantly stood his ground.

Scott began to count down slowly, stepping closer like a predator stalking their prey. With each number ticking down his voice grew lower and lower.

"Three." Sparks flew from the flint and steel. "Two." Fear flickered in Jimmy's eyes as the realisation set in that Scott was serious. "One."

Scott lit the ground around Jimmy on fire, watching the flames climb higher with ravenous hunger. Jimmy yelped and began to jump around. Following, Scott lit and put out fires with incredible speed. When the flames latched onto Jimmy's skin, searing pink flesh, a smile stretched across his face.

Jimmy panted heavily, landing on a higher trapdoor. His arm was singed, the jacket and shirt sleeves practically ribbons.

"I'm not leaving." Jimmy said, his tone convicted.

That only left Scott with more of a challenge. His grin widened with the idea of a new game, a chance to see how long it'd take, how many injuries Jimmy would sustain, before he finally decided to back off.

Scott balled his fists and drew closer. Jimmy tried to jump, but couldn't get past Scott. He fell into a corner, his palms flat against the walls.

He reared his fist back and slammed it into the wall next to Jimmy's head. The blond flinched, eyes wide and panicked, yet still containing that flame of determination.

"Five seconds. Or I'll be punching you instead of the wall." Scott pulled his fist back. He looked at the dent he made in the wall with pride.

Jimmy, in typical Jimmy fashion, did not back down.

"Five." He balled his fist. "Four." Into the wall. "Three." Pulled back. "Two." Grabbing a fistful of Jimmy's shirt, yanking him closer. "One."

Scott slammed his fist into Jimmy's nose.

Thick red blood ran down his face, yet he made no reaction. Scott, frowning, prepared to hit him a second time.

Jimmy sprung into action and darted past him. A growl escaped Scott's lips and he trailed after him, blood staining his hand.

Upon him moving towards the entrance, Jimmy flung himself forward once more and back onto the high trapdoor. He wiped the blood running down his face but didn't clear it away, only leaving a smear behind.

"I. Am not. Leaving." Jimmy enunciated each word with a new wave of fury.

They both breathed heavily, chests rising and falling in unison.

Scott, for a moment, wondered why exactly he was doing this. Greens weren't meant to be particularly violent, yet there was no denying that there was a bloodlust that burned inside him, the kind that only a Red could achieve.

His vision went red.

A familiar weight fell into his hands. An axe, he realised. Scott glared at Jimmy.

This time he gave no warning. He lunged immediately, lifting the axe up and bringing it down in a swift arc on Jimmy's chest. The scream that followed was euphoric to Scott.

Finally, Jimmy fled. He sprinted past Scott, coughing and wheezing and hacking, barrelling out the door and into the open.

The axe dropped onto the floor. Scott stared at it, the blood on the blade and his hands. On his clothes. Even his shoes. Scott left his house with the desire to see himself guiding him towards Gem's diving board and flinging himself off of it.

He landed in the water and swam to the land, climbing onto it. Scott peered at his reflection.

Scott was covered in blood, although some of it had been washed off in the fall. His hair clung to his forehead, his eyes flickered red, then settled back on green. Blood was smudged on his cheek - how had it gotten there? It was all over his shirt, covering the green on it, and splattered on his trousers. The edges of his shoes were stained with a mix of blood and dirt.

He didn't look like a Green. He looked like a Red.

Scott fell to his knees, a laugh bubbling in his throat. He was cackling, bent over and clutching the ground. Dirt crept under his fingernails and each laugh out of his throat was like coughing blood.

He didn't recognise himself. Not really. He wasn't a Green. He was the spitting image of a Red. Of someone who'd lost every ounce of self-restraint. Someone wild.

He looked like Pearl, who went Red early in Double Life, even though she was still on her first life.

He looked like Martyn at the end of the previous life game, dirty with blood and grime and sweat, but cackling and joyful with madness.

Scott looked like a Winner.

[flowers-for-the-grave]

The Petals Fall

They built their homes amongst cherry blossom trees.

Scott sat in his home and watched Gem and Impulse go about their days. He stared at the trees, the colourful leaves vibrant and elegant.

Sometimes he'd remember the past games. This area was like his first home, with Jimmy, back in the flower fields. And at the same time, it reminded him of his home with Martyn. Their houses were closely packed, like they had been in every life game he'd played.

He sat in his new home, on the floor, staring at his hands. Hands that had seen their fair share of bloodshed. Hands that had refused the call of the Boogeyman and were punished for it. Hands that gave into that call.

The trees outside were beautiful. He'd taken their wood and used it for his home. Scott couldn't help but admire them. Even from afar.

This was the start of a new life. A life where, in future life games, he would be reminded of by small things.

Gem waved at him when she saw him. Scott waved back.

"You coming?" Impulse asked, his hand stretched out towards him. When had they gotten into his house?

The others were behind them; Martyn with coral on his clothes and messy hair; Cleo, hair tumbling down her back, eyes glinting with joy and tranquillity; Pearl with her wolves at her side and her hood pulled over her head; Jimmy with his ridiculous outfit and kind smile.

Scott felt the lightning bolt pierce his chest. He screamed, body convulsing.

He opened his eyes and they were gone. All of them. Their bodies surrounded him, bloodied, with their heads turned to face him. Bile rose in his throat.

They weren't real. They weren't real, none of this was real. It wasn't real. It couldn't be. He was in his home, Gem and Impulse outside.

"Scott?" Gem called out. Her hair fell over her shoulders and for a moment she looked like Cleo. "Are you coming?"

Impulse grinned, joyful and playful. Like Jimmy's smile.

"Yeah. Just give me a second."

He took several deep breaths.

It was a new life now. A new chance to make new bonds.

A chance to have those bonds broken.

Scott stood up and approached the door. Heaving a final breath, he tossed it open and stepped into the light. Impulse grabbed his arm and tugged him along.

Gem ran up ahead, beckoning them towards her. Scott shirked off Impulse and sprinted forwards.

"Race ya!" He yelled. A laugh spilled from his lips.

Behind him, four petals fell to the floor.

[flowers-for-the-grave]

The Doll

He didn't expect to die so quickly.

Scott usually managed to survive a while. Not all the time, mind you, he was only mortal after all, but it just came as a surprise.

When he died, aside from the intense pain that came with being burned alive, Scott could almost feel his bones fracturing. Which was strange since he no longer had any bones to break. It was as if, in his third death, he had died as a Transporter too.

He felt a baby zombie sink its teeth into his non-existent flesh. Its fists collliding with his ribs. He felt that, as well.

Scott tried to shake the feeling off. He wasn't a Fungal Mage anymore. It was a new life, a different life. He wasn't like the others before him.

It was as if he was being pulled apart and pieces of him were scattered through lives he'd lived in the past. Glimpses of a sword thrust through his heart in snowy mountains, of dying to a friend's hand, of standing atop a mound of TNT and lighting it.

Of waking up in the flower fields again with a blurred face smiling at him.

Shivers crawled over his body.

He was dead now, wasn't he?

An emptiness crept inside him. The others would be gone soon. Properly gone. Would he be the last one left?

Scott thought about Sausage, his new life as an assassin. Of all his friends. Jimmy. Sparrow (although sometimes he thought he was Owen instead. Maybe he just had one of those faces). Lizzie. Martyn. Everyone he had cared about, gone.

Dead. Just like he was.

Something seemed familiar. He couldn't tell what it was.

"Home."

"Are you coming?"

"Martyn!"

"I'm giving you ten seconds to run."

Scott's eyes snapped open.

[flowers-for-the-grave]

Spores of Sculk

He hadn't expected to see him like that at first.

A human first. He remembered that. They'd met when he spooked Sparrow whilst he was trying to take pictures of him from afar. Then they had gone into his house to interview him.

Then a copper golem. He was smaller, certainly, and seeing the person he'd known for so long change scared him. What if Sparrow changed? What if he didn't like him much anymore? People changed when they died, he knew that much.

But he didn't. Not really. He was mostly the same person.

And now, Sparrow was...whatever he is now. Some sort of sculk creature.

Scott rubbed his temples, trying to ease the aching.

The spores floating around him dispersed a little and he let out an annoyed growl, stamping the ground and digging his foot into the dirt.

Lifting his shoe back up, he realised he'd broken the mycellium he'd surrounded the sculk in.

He sighed.

Sparrow mentioned opening doors when he was in his head. Had he actually...? No, he couldn't have. Surely. That was a huge invasion of privacy. He wouldn't do that.

Recalling the sensation sent shivers down his spine.

Best to ignore it.

[flowers-for-the-grave]

Herons Aren't Lightweights

The Herons base was rowdy at night.

They all gathered together, tankards of beer in hand, drinking like there was no tomorrow. There may as well not have been to them.

Cleo continued brewing up drinks, adding input to the conversations going on around her.

Scott was up on the stage with Christian, asking questions in a hushed tone, yet somehow she could still hear the slur in his voice.

Eloise sat with Water, both singing somewhat poorly to bar songs and the made-up anthem of the Herons. Olive sat beside them, joining in every now and then but mostly just working on tuning their instrument.

Owen sat at one of the tables, head in his hands. He let out a low groan, eyes fluttering shut.

"Guys? I think someone needs to take Owen to bed." Cleo called out.

"Really? Already?" Olive asked. "We've only had...had..." Olive's eyes began to droop. They downed another drink. "We've only had, like, five drinks."

Water shrugged. "I can take him. Be back soon!" Water stood up, staggering a little, then approached Owen. "C'mon, let's go. You've had enough for tonight."

Owen only groaned weakly in protest.

Once Water had carried Owen out of the tavern, Cleo glanced over at Scott. He was still talking to Christian, and was gesticulating madly.

Olive and Eloise seemed distracted enough. They wouldn't mind if the next round of drinks didn't come for a bit.

Cleo carefully walked up to Scott, then paused a little behind him.

"What do I do? I- is there anything I can...do for him? I mean, we've just started talk...talking to each other again!"

Christian merely shrugged in response. "I am not sure. For now, give him some space and a little time. Eventually things between you will get easier."

Scott's ears flushed. "I don't have time to wait that long! What if one of us goes out on an expedition and never comes back? I may never get to see him again in time, and I don't want thing to be tense between us if and when that happens!" His voice rose in pitch and volume.

For a brief second, Eloise and Olive glanced his way. Then the two of them slowly turned back to each other and their drinks.

Cleo set her hand on Scott's shoulder. He spun around and grasped at the handle of his rapier, then let go when he saw it was her. "I think you should sit down now Scott. Give Christian a break."

He nodded meekly. "Yeah. Yeah, sure." Scott allowed Cleo to lead him to a seat at a table, then push him into it.

"Is it about Acho?"

Scott hesitated, then nodded. "I just...I just don't know what to do."

"Think about it in the morning. You're not thinking clearly right now. When you're sober, think about it then. For now, you can either keep drinking and drown your sorrows in alcohol, or you can take a rest like Owen. No shame in either option."

"Alcohol. Strong alcohol." He didn't stutter, and his voice was almost completely free of a slurred tone. Almost as if he hadn't had more drinks than most of the other Herons already.

"Sure?"

"Yes. I want you to give me so much alcohol that I can barely move around tomorrow. No, for the rest of the week."

Cleo sighed. It wasn't a good idea, but they were pirates.

Since when was anything they did a 'good idea'?

Olive let out a startled yelp, then a joyful squeal. "Cruppy! Hello!" Cruppy jumped at Olive's heels, rubbing against them and jumping like a puppy would. Olive bent down and stroked Cruppy, to which the crab-puppy-thing eagerly jumped into their lap for stroking convenience.

Smiling at the sight, Eloise was suddenly motivated to sing even louder and more joyfully than before. Olive joined in with equal vigour and Cruppy nestled in their lap peacefully.

Cleo shook her head with a warm grin, then grabbed the next round of drinks.

"To us!" She declared, holding her tankard tight and pushing it high into the air.

"To us!" The others parroted, with varying levels of volume and enthusiasm. Regardless, the sound could be heard well beyond the Herons' base and echoed through the town.

Water returned, arms free of Owen, and shouted, "To us!" at the top of her lungs. A delayed reaction, but a welcome one.

For the rest of the night, they all chanted the same thing over and over, falling asleep in the tavern.

They all regretted it in the morning.

But Herons weren't lightweights, and for some strange reason, they all wished to prove it.

[flowers-for-the-grave]

The Spread

It was spreading. His colony was growing every day. Bit by bit, it was expanding out of the corners he had planted them in and moving out into the daylight.

A smile curled at his lips.

He could feel them all even from the comfort of his home. Tiny tendrons snaking forwards. Miniscule mushrooms bursting out of the ground.

Everything was going according to plan.

---

Gem was the first, that he knew of, to notice.

Mushrooms were just...growing! Behind the house she'd made in her first life!

Really, they shouldn't be growing there. It wasn't the right habitat and there were no other patches of them elsewhere nearby.

Someone must have put them there. Surely.

Although, there was a huge amount of them. How had she not seen them before? It wasn't that well hidden. Not when they peeked out into her line of sight rather prominently.

Perhaps she should get rid of them. Or at least build something to keep them contained.

She didn't want them getting any closer.

---

The others had large patches, too.

Jimmy's patch of mushrooms were a stark contrast to the pinks and whites of his area. The dull grey of the mycellium was obvious against the emerald grass surrounding it, and the mushrooms were rather out of place amongst the flowers.

fWhip had a decent amount as well, perhaps the biggest of all of them. He didn't seem to notice them yet. Good. His area was large enough that they'd probably stay hidden for a while longer.

And Sausage? Obviously there were a couple mushrooms there as well! Hopefully, like fWhip, he wouldn't notice them just yet. The mushrooms there had grown considerably. It'd be a shame if he found them and took them down.

---

Of course if any of them did dare hurt them, Scott would retaliate.

Gaia be damned. She'd appreciate it, really. He was helping!

He sat in his home, taking a bite out of a cabbage roll that he didn't need to eat anymore. The taste was bland, nothing like how it had been in his last life as a transporter. Most food had lost its appeal.

The mushrooms outside his house were slowly beginning to creep down towards the rest of his area.

Perfect.

[flowers-for-the-grave]

The Colony

Scott could feel the mushrooms.

Every tiny nook and cranny that he could place them in wasn't safe to the eyes of his brethren. Through them he could see. Through them he could hear. Through them he could feel.

There was no privacy in the colony. Everything was shared. That way no one had to deal with things alone.

But that also meant that Scott's pain was shared with the entire colony. His anguish, his agony, his sorrow. Every mushroom in his colony felt it and resonated with it.

He hated it. Hated how miserable he made his colony feel.

But as quickly as it'd come, the hatred would dissipate as the mushrooms soothed him with gentle words. His mind would be lulled into silence with their tender tune of love and adoration; because why wouldn't they adore him? Not many fungal mages roamed the lands anymore. They were few; a tiny sub-populace, a dying minority that would fade away.

The colony couldn't let him be destroyed by his sadness. He was the one spreading their power across the world. So they treated him like the blessing he was.

Scott sat on the mycellium outside his house, one hand tenderly stroking the ground and humming a small melody.

"How are you settling in? Hmm. That's good. I was worried that Martyn's Dollop would be a bit hard to adjust to. It's nice to know you're doing well. Oh? Don't tell me you just learned about the Coliny. They're nice, I promise. Yes, I know, you'll be fine! They aren't competition. They are just... frozen creepers? Yeti creepers? Something like that."

The mycellium around him spoke in a mixture of tones and voices.

"Oh no, I doubt Martyn will find you too quickly. He'll take a while at least. Probably a couple weeks. Maybe some months. He isn't as dense as I'd like him to be, but he's dumb enough."

He felt their worry. Their fear of discovery. And at that he shook his head and tutted.

"Don't fret, my babies. If he does try to uproot you or hurt you..." He trailed off and glared at the sinking sun. "I'll show the fury of the colony. Every single one of his colins shall fall."

It was a promise. The sun, the moon and the blinking stars were his witnesses.

"What's this about killing my colins?"

"Oh. Martyn." Scott stood up and greeted the chillager. "How are you? Is there something you need?"

"Nah, just passing through," Martyn waved him off. "Although, what happened to your last origin?"

"I died."

"I know that! What are you now? How'd you die?"

He shrugged. "Fell. But now I'm even better! I'm a fungal mage!"

Martyn tilted his head like a puzzled puppy. "What's that?"

Scott didn't give him an answer. "I'm not alone now. I have my colony! No matter where I go, as long as I have mycellium, they are with me as well. It's wonderful! Nothing is private anymore! I don't need to worry about secrets! Or going through things alone!"

"I-"

"You'd love it Martyn. It's like never losing your inner child. Like always being able to cling to the parts of you that you love most. I have help for every problem!"

"This doesn't seem healthy." Martyn stepped forward and placed his hand on Scott's cheek. "Are you sure you're alright?" His touch was cold, but it didn't bother him. Scott leaned into it.

"Perfectly fine!"

Martyn's lips tugged down for a second, but returned to a thin line of indifference.

"I'd best be off."

"See you later!" Scott smiled, waving as his friend went away.

---

"He's not okay."

"What do you think it is?"

"He kept mentioning a colony. Acted as if he had a psychic connection with them as long as he had mycellium."

"Hmm. Check everyone's bases. There might be stuff there."

"You sure? What if we're just, y'know, overestimating this? It might just be harmless."

"I doubt it."

"Fine. I'll start looking."